


Tread Lightly On My Ground

by 0hHeyThereBigBadWolf



Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: Arthur Knows About Merlin's Magic (Merlin), Bottom Arthur, Boys In Love, Do Not Re-Post To Another Site, Established Relationship, Loss of Virginity, M/M, Porn with Feelings, Self-Indulgent, Soft Arthur Pendragon (Merlin)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-13
Updated: 2020-05-13
Packaged: 2021-03-03 01:55:36
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,218
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24156973
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/0hHeyThereBigBadWolf/pseuds/0hHeyThereBigBadWolf
Summary: "I...I would rather have your company than not." Oh, gods, he should've kept his mouth shut.Arthur has never been able to ask for things. He's never learnt how because princes command, they do not ask. Until they need to.
Relationships: Merlin/Arthur Pendragon (Merlin)
Comments: 26
Kudos: 575
Collections: Scruffy Pendragon Fest





	Tread Lightly On My Ground

"Will that be all for tonight, sire?"

The words are unexpected in the quiet of the room, and Arthur can't quite stifle his twitch of surprise. Confused, he looks around see Merlin standing just a pace away from him, hands clasped behind his back, then turns his gaze around the chamber. The fire's been laid, fed with thick logs that'll burn long into the night. His picked-at dinner has been cleared away, all the candles have been snuffed, and the bedcovers are all turned down, pillows rearranged the way he likes. "Oh. Ah, yes, I suppose, that's…that's all."

"Right." Merlin shifts his weight as though to take a step, then stops, swaying back the other way. "Are you all right, Arthur?"

Arthur opens his mouth, makes no sound, and closes it again. No. He wouldn't much say that he's all right. Except he's not meant to say such things anymore, is he? Especially not to a manservant, even a sorcerous one. A king cannot be weak. And if the king is weak, then it falls to the regent to be strong in his place. Such is his lot, and he shan't fail his king or his kingdom. Not after he's failed them both so many times already.

"Arthur?"

He raises his gaze, surprised to see that Merlin's come closer without him noticing.

The younger man shifts his weight again, that funny little sway he does. "If you need to talk or anything else, I'll listen," he says, hesitant, as though he's not certain how well his offer will be received.

Arthur slides his gaze down the young man and nods, glancing away. If only he knew how badly Arthur wanted him to stay. To stay and speak to him, to tell him that he is doing something, _anything_ right, that he is still _able_ to do anything right, to perhaps take him up on that hug he had offered years ago, so hastily rebuffed, to…to…oh, gods help him, he is pathetic, isn't he?

Merlin gives him one of those long, quietly complicated looks that he excels at, finally letting out a little sigh. "Well…if that's all, then I'll bid you goodnight," he says, but then he shuffles a little closer and lays a hand on Arthur's shoulder, squeezing tight enough that it makes Arthur look up again, surprised. Merlin's eyes are almost a deep shade of violet than blue in the dim chamber, yet still solemnly earnest. "You're doing well, Arthur. You are. Truly."

He starts to draw away, but Arthur hastily snags his wrist, holding him fast.

"Arthur?"

He's quiet for a beat, thumb brushing lightly over the delicate skin inside Merlin's wrist, feeling the flicker of his pulse there. "I…I would rather have your company than not." Oh, gods, he should've kept his mouth shut.

There's a stretch of silence so long that Arthur can hear his own pulse hammering away in his ears, a dull rush of blood pounding out _stupid, stupid, stupid._

Finally, Merlin takes a half-step to the side so he stands directly in front of Arthur's chair, still gazing down at him with that inscrutably complex look on his face. He shifts the arm still in Arthur's grasp to hold onto him as well, balancing on one foot as he raises the other leg, placing his knee in the chair beside Arthur's thigh. Slowly, carefully, listening to the creak of the chair, he brings up his other leg, plants the other knee. Merlin slides his fingers through Arthur's hair, smoothing it back from his brow, tucking it behind his ears, and leaves both hands resting on the sides of his neck, warm and bracing. "You have it. I'm here."

It's all Arthur can do not to lean into those strong hands, almost painfully gentle with their touches. With a Titanesque effort, he reaches up to curl his hands around Merlin's wrists, drawing his hands away. "Wait," he mumbles, turning his head as Merlin leans in towards him.

"What, Arthur?" Merlin's lips brush his ear, breath in his hair. "What?"

"I've never…I can't…." He swallows hard, keeping his head down. He cannot look up. If he does, he'll be lost. "I am the prince. I won't make you do this. Not this."

Not like other nobles do. Not like his father had. He can still remember them, when he was too young to know to stay away, walking about the castle in the early hours of the morning—kitchen girls, maidservants, laundresses, seamstresses, even the occasional noblewoman, leaving his father's chambers with skirts still rumpled and stays still loose, eyes downcast and shoulders pulled in tight, bolting if they saw him. The last one he'd seen hadn't been much older than six-and-ten.

He wouldn't do it. He _couldn't._ Morgana used to tease, jest about him saving his virtue for his future queen, and he could never bring himself to tell her the real reason why he never took a bedwarmer, never named a favourite or a mistress. There are things a person _does not do,_ and taking that which should only be given freely is one of them.

Callused fingers touch his jaw, lift his head. "You know me, Arthur," Merlin replies softly. "I never do as I'm told."

It isn't that simple, of course, but when Merlin traces fingers down his chest, his eyes flicker gold, an unspoken reminder. Arthur understands. It's easy to forget sometimes, the kind of power humming in Merlin's blood, the strength he carries within; if he didn't want Arthur to touch him, then Arthur wouldn't be able to touch him. His crown, his kingdom, they're nothing; Merlin could turn the gold to powder at a thought, bring the castle down to rubble. To know that there's power to enough to split the earth in the hands stroking his hair, that there is a bottled firestorm curled up in his lap, should be terrifying. And yet he finds himself calming, leaning forward to rest his head against Merlin's chest, sliding arms around him.

When he breathes in, Merlin smells like soap from his bath and hay from the stables and herbs from the physician's chamber. When Merlin strokes the nape of his neck, his hands are scarred and callused from labour and his own clumsiness. When Arthur tilts his head against his chest, Merlin's heart beats clean and clear in his ear, a steady thrum of _life,_ echoing in his own breast. When he tilts his chin up, Merlin's mouth is warm and soft, tasting of the sweet wine he swears he never steals from the kitchen.

The only sound in the chamber is the snap of the fire, the creak of the chair, the soft sound of mouths and hands on fabric. Arthur groans softly when Merlin's soft mouth pulls away from his, trailing hot, open kisses over his jaw and down his neck, mouthing along his throat above the collar of his jacket. Merlin eases apart the fastenings with the ease of repetition, not even needing to draw away at all, then slides both hands up Arthur's chest pushing the jacket back off his shoulders. He leans forward in the chair so he can slide his arms free, but then Merlin eases back from him, climbing off his lap and reaching out to take his hands, tugging lightly.

On his feet, Arthur finds himself uncertain again. Everything about this situation is familiar to him—fire laid in the hearth, bedcovers turned down, manservant helping off his clothes—and yet it's new, too—the heated look Merlin gives him through dark lashes, the warm press of hands sliding down his thighs to his boots, the tickle of breath on his belly through his tunic. His skin feels as though its been scoured raw, sensitive to every little stir of air, every slight movement; it burns through him like fire, making a hot curl of almost sickly eagerness wind itself up in the pit of his belly.

When Merlin rises, he crosses his arms in front of him, grasping the bottom of his tunic to raise it, but Arthur catches his wrists. Ignoring Merlin's puzzled gaze, he reaches up to untie that damn neckerchief, drawing it through his fingers once before laying it aside. Then goes his tunic; firelight plays warm and golden over his skin, picking out the faintly raised lines of his scars, the dusting of dark hair on his chest, surrounding an old burn scar from years before. When Arthur presses his hand over it, a shudder goes through Merlin's body like a flick through a rope, and he lays his own palm on Arthur's shoulder, covering the ragged starburst where the Questing Beast's long canine had punctured.

Arthur's not certain which of them move forward first. Perhaps both. The next few moments are only a flushed, panting haze of mouths and hands and skin, lips and teeth and tongues. Somehow, he ends up on his back on the bed, gasping as Merlin climbs up over him, all sinewy muscle and hot skin, tracking kisses over his collarbones and chest with intermittent scrapes of teeth. Perhaps he says something, makes some noise. He isn't entirely sure. Either way, Merlin's head lifts from its _sublime_ ministrations, hair standing on end from Arthur's hands raking through it, mouth red and swollen. "Arthur?" he asks.

"I…I…" Words, he needs words. What were those again? Only one comes to the fore. "Please."

Merlin gives him a soft smile even as his voice dips another register. "Alright."

The world falls back into that wondrous haze, both aware and not, conscious of nothing but Merlin above him, around him, and finally, _finally_ inside him, first the slick press of sure fingers, then all of him, moving in slow measures until their hips are flush. Merlin lowers his weight to his elbows, hands buried in Arthur's hair as he moves, slow-steady as the tides, up and down, in and out. And Arthur…Arthur can do no more than shudder and moan through it, clutching Merlin's shoulder blades, back arched, heels digging into the bed. Distantly, he can hear a strangled whine being voiced and realises it's him. He hadn't known he could even make such a sound.

Suddenly, Merlin raises his body up, a cool draught of air coming between them. Arthur nearly whimpers at it, but the sound chokes off in his throat when Merlin's hand snakes between them, still-slick fingers curling around him. _That,_ that is better than the friction he'd gotten between their bellies, his hips jerking off the bed towards Merlin's hand. He raises his head and sinks his teeth into all that firm, pale muscle above him, making a gag of Merlin's shoulder as he wails out his pleasure, spilling out hot over their skin.

The steady rocking motion ceases, but before Arthur can regain enough function to protest, eyes opening, Merlin raises his hand to his mouth, tongue curling around his fingers, licking them clean. Smiling at Arthur's stunned silence, he lowers his head for a kiss, salty bitterness lingering on his tongue, and his hips take up their rhythm again, pushing hard and eager into Arthur until he shudders to a halt in a rush of warmth, head hanging low. Merlin holds himself braced over Arthur for a moment, panting, then falls over onto his back beside him, languid and boneless.

He isn't certain how long he lays there, sweat and thicker things cooling on his skin, but a stinging ache begins to make itself known in his hips and further back. It isn't entirely unpleasant. Still, he can't help but to murmur, "Ow."

Merlin's head comes up from the pillow, alarmed, but he huffs a laugh when he sees Arthur's grin. "Dollophead. Alright, though?" he asks, shifting his arm up a little, knuckles brushing the sweat-damp hair at Arthur's temples.

"Mm. If you don't do that to me again, I'm banishing you."

That earns him an outright snort. "As if you could last a day without me."

"No, I couldn't."

"Do you mind if I…?" Merlin drums his fingers feather-light against his belly and the drying mess there; Arthur shakes his head, and magic tingles over his skin, leaving him clean and dry. A stretch of languid silence, and Arthur's sliding towards sleep when Merlin's low murmur brings him back awake. "Should I…I mean, do you want me to go?"

"Merlin," he sighs, opening his eyes halfway. "I don't know why I'm surprised that a good tumble would knock out whatever scrap of sense you had."

"More sense than _you,"_ comes the automatic retort, but then he asks softly, "Is that a no, then?"

"That's a no," Arthur agrees. His sorcerer still looks uncertain, though, and with a weary sigh, he rolls over onto his side, putting his back to Merlin, then gropes behind him until he finds a sharp-boned wrist, pulling the arm over his waist and by value pulling Merlin's warm form closer as well. "Just…hold me, alright? Stay with me."

"I will." Merlin's breath tickles the shell of his ear, ruffling his hair as he curls himself around Arthur's back. "I always will."

"Always, hm?"

"Always and always."

Arthur relaxes back into Merlin's arms and lets the words follow him into sleep.


End file.
